


Fightin' Words

by Sophia_Prester



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Humor, Hunt Gone Wrong, so very very wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-07 10:36:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1895904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_Prester/pseuds/Sophia_Prester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean have both been through many trials, together and apart. They have lost faith. They have lost hope. They have even lost their lives. And, on more than one occasion, their dignity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fightin' Words

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [](http://caffienekitty.livejournal.com/profile)[**caffienekitty**](http://caffienekitty.livejournal.com/) as part of the [](http://spn-summergen.livejournal.com/profile)[**spn_summergen**](http://spn-summergen.livejournal.com/) 2010 exchange. This is the closest I have ever come to writing crack. Many thanks to [](http://aishuu.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://aishuu.livejournal.com/)**aishuu** for her beta help on this.

"Click... Ka _BOOM!_ " Dean's cackling easily drowned out Bachman Turner Overdrive.

Sam, however, was not quite so amused.

"It's not funny. I could have been killed, Dean."

Sam was right--he could have been killed. He had been killed. Multiple times.

So had Dean. Also multiple times.

Which meant that no, it really wasn't funny. Nope. Not even a single bit. Really.

"Oh, man. You should have seen your _face_..."

Except that it totally was.

* * *

Once the apocalypse had been averted (or at least significantly delayed, according to Castiel, who of late had raised being a wet blanket to an art form) and all the various factions had hashed things out in the aftermath, things had quieted down a lot for Sam and Dean.

Of course, 'quieted down' was a relative term. There were still all sorts of ghastlies and ghoulies out there who needed to be introduced to a cozy little fire or the business end of a shotgun, but after dealing with the hosts of Hell (bad) and Heaven (worse), putting ghosts to rest was about as exciting as tossing a used Roach Motel into the trash.

By the time they were on their tenth salt-and-burn in the space of four weeks, the whole ghostbusting gig was starting to get a little stale.

The way things were going, it might have been a good move to buy stock in Morton's Salt and Ronson Lighter Fluid. They were sure as heck going through enough of it. And Dean was seriously thinking about giving up shovels for what was left of Lent.

But first they had to torch the mortal remains of Mortimer Joseph Hunnicutt (b. 1803, d. 1882), a man who was by all accounts a prime asshole when he was among the living and even worse now that he was dead.

"With the amount of digging we've been doing, maybe we should think about hiring out as landscape gardeners or something," Sam suggested oh-so-innocently. "You know, make an honest living for a change."

Dean stopped digging and viciously _chunked_ the shovel into the ground.

"Ix-nay on the ardening-gay. How many times do we need to go over this, Samantha?"

* * *

"Rhododendrons," Sam hissed from the passenger seat.

"Hey. Be nice. You're talking to the guy who's going to have to help dig the buckshot out of your ass." He shook his head. "Alex, I'll take 'things I'm _really_ not looking forward to' for a hundred."

Sam leaned in close. " _Azaleas_."

"Aza--oh, now you're askin' for it."

Dean pondered aiming for the next convenient pothole, but he wasn't going to risk the Impala's rims just to make a point.

He'd been feeling sorry for Sam, really. But damn... Talk about your low blows.

* * *

The azaleas. Holy mother of God, the _fucking azaleas._

It had been one of Dean's more harrowing experiences since the apocalypse.

At the time, Dean was still feeling twitchy as hell (pardon the pun) and kind of rusty after his stint away from the action. So, when he and Sam (mostly Sam) got a call from Becky Rosen about how she'd found these perfect rings of what looked and smelled like sulfur surrounding the bushes in her mom's back yard, Dean couldn't be blamed for overreacting a smidge.

Or overreacting a ton, according to Sam.

Well, how was he supposed to react when he saw patches of bright yellow sulfur all throughout Becky's mom's garden? Becky wasn't dating Chuck any more, hadn't even seen him in over a year, but there were all kinds of demons who might want to get their hands on a prophet's ex-girlfriend. Why? Well, for _all_ sorts of nefarious and kinky purposes!

From the look on her face when she explained all this, it was clear that Becky had been thinking about this a lot. In detail. Repeatedly. Sam strongly suspected that she had already written the fic.

(He knew better than to go looking, though. The one time he had checked out her LiveJournal, he hadn't been able to look Dean in the eye for a week.)

Then again, Becky had helped them out of a couple of binds, and they weren't about to let a demon get its perverted little hands on her.

Sam had opted for doing a little research to find out which demon was stalking Becky and why, or if it was a case of one of the neighbor kids trying to summon a demon (again), but Dean would have none of it. Take no chances and take no prisoners, was his opinion on the subject.

Dean went in there and purified that garden but good--razed it to the ground and sowed it with salt. There wouldn't be any demons coming out of those shrubs any time soon.

As it turned out, there probably wouldn't have been any in the first place.

To make a long story short, Dean's intentions has been for the best, but that made no difference to Becky's mom, even after Dean had apologized profusely and had offered to replace the plants he had destroyed.

He also learned there would be a great deal of soil amendment in his immediate future.

Fortunately, Mrs. Rosen had spent a _very_ enlightening Thanksgiving with her daughter and Chuck, so instead of thinking Dean was crazy, she merely thought he was deeply, deeply stupid.

Dean had faced wendigos and vampires and Lucifer himself, but the five-foot-and-spit President of the Greater Wilmington Azalea Society ranked up there with Bloody Mary herself in terms of being the stuff of nightmares.

Sam just stood there watching and not helping and looking like he wished he had a bag of popcorn.

By the time she was done haranguing, Dean knew more about soil conditions and the horticultural needs of _Rhododendron yedoense var. poukhanense_ than he would ever, ever need to know.

When they went to the garden center to pick up the new bushes and umpteen cubic yards of unsalted topsoil, Sam pointed out the bags of sulfur meant for amending soil pH ("Perfect for Azaleas!") and smirked.

He didn't say anything, but Dean told him to shut up anyway.

* * *

"Seriously? Are you really so--heh--butthurt you're dragging out the big guns, Sam?"

Sam shifted in his seat. Or rather, on the inflatable donut thing Dean had picked up at a drugstore before going back to get Sam from the cemetery.

"Very funny, Dean." There was a long silence, the kind that usually signaled a descent into a nice, quiet sulk. "Anyhow, you have to admit the whole azalea thing was pretty funny."

"No it wasn't."

"Was, too."

"Was not, and may I point out that you brought it up _before_ you got shot in the ass."

There was an offended huff. "Yeah, but it was _after_ you brought up the birthday party."

* * *

Digging was hard work, especially if you were going six feet down. If the ground was hard, you had to whack at it with the shovel until your arms were numb. If the ground was soft, it was usually heavy. In the case of Mortimer Joseph Hunnicutt (b. 1803, d. 1882), they also had the fun of shifting rocks. A lot of rocks.

Dean lobbed another softball-sized stone out of the grave. "Is it just me, or do you think our resident shithead here had these put in on purpose?"

Sam shrugged, which kind of hurt, after all that digging. "It's possible. From what little I could find out about--hold on." His shovel had finally hit something that wasn't a rock.

Over the years, he and Dean had dug up coffins in all states of age and repair. Fiberglass, wood, steel, even plastic or styrofoam. Some had caved in, some were welded shut, others were so dry they went up in flame like a pile of tinder, and there were a few that were unpleasantly squishy.

There was also a cardboard one, once, but they didn't talk about that case. Ever. Dean had even lied to Dad rather than tell him what they'd found.

In this case, the shovel went _clank_ rather than _thunk_ or _pock_ or (worst of all) _sploosh_.

"Metal. Great. That means we gotta open it to burn his pervy old bones," Dean said. "Tell you what, Sam. Once this is done, we need a break. A real one. You've got a birthday coming up, right?"

Sam thought about that for a second. He wasn't sure how that birthdays and age worked anymore, what with his stint in Hell, but Dean had picked right up on his own birthdays where he'd left off without any kind of existential dithering after _he_ had come back from the pit. "Yeah. I guess."

"'Yeah? I guess?' C'mon man. What kind of attitude is that? We haven't had anything to celebrate for a while." He flung another shovelful of earth out of the grave, and wiped his brow. It was a pleasantly cool spring day, but they'd both worked up a sweat. "Last time you had anything like a birthday party, you were what?"

At least Dean had the good grace to go a little pale when he realized what he had just said.

" _Six_ ," Sam snarled.

* * *

Pastor Jim had meant well. He really had.

Sam knew that now. Even before he knew what Dad _really_ did on all of those 'business trips,' he knew that he also felt safer at Pastor Jim's than he did even when Dad was asleep in the bed next to his, shotgun by his side.

At Pastor Jim's, he had his own bedroom and books, and home-cooked meals three times a day. Whenever he and Dean stayed there, Pastor Jim had worked to make sure they had a small taste of a normal life.

When Sam was five-about-to-be-six, Dad had parked him and Dean at Pastor Jim's for a 'little while' while he took care of something.

"I've got something special planned for Sam. For, you know..." Pastor Jim had said to Dad just before Dad drove off.

What Sam remembered most was that Dad had actually _smiled_. That didn't happen often. He said something about trying to be back on time.

But he hadn't. He'd been too late.

As usual.

Sam only had very dim, inexact memories of what had happened that day. Just his throat being raw and sore from screaming, and a horrible, terror-filled blankness.

He had sat there in the blankness for what felt like days.

The blankness only started to subside when he heard footsteps. Heavy footsteps coming in his direction.

Then, Dad's voice.

"Jim?"

There was a sigh, then a defeated "Yes, John?"

"You mind explaining to me why Sam appears to be catatonic?"

Another sigh, and then Dean--

_You jerk. You said you'd always take care of me._

"Dad! Dad! You shoulda seen it! We had a big birthday party for Sam, an' there was cake, and ice cream--"

_You almost let it get me!_

"Yes, we had a party for Sam, just like I told you we would. The church youth group helped put it on."

Dad was now close enough that Sam could cling to his leg.

"And?"

Dad sounded like he was in serious discomfort, but Sam was not going to let go. Ever.

"And our youth pastor, well, he occasionally hires out as a clown to children's birthday parties, and..."

"It was awesome!"

_I hate you, Dean._

"I'm afraid it did not go very well."

* * *

"Hey, I'm sorry I accidentally brought up your whole weird-ass childhood clown-trauma thing, but it was an accident. I was _trying_ to be nice. You've had a shit time recently--"

"Now there's an understatement."

"--and I thought hey, maybe we should do something fun for your birthday."

Sam seemed to accept that at face value. He nodded contemplatively, but there was the shadow of a smirk there.

"Something fun. Right." The smirk came out of the shadows and into the harsh light of day. "Something fun like... karaoke?"

Dean blinked. Karaoke? Fun? Other than singing along to the radio, the last time he'd...

Sam's voice was little more than a whisper, but there was a definite tune there. " _When I'm drivin' in my car, and that man comes on the radio..._ "

"You bitch! You did not just-- Oh, you are so going to _pay_ for that."

* * *

It was Sam's idea. His idea, and therefore his fault.

Dad usually had a good idea of how much money he had to leave them to last for a while, but that was before Sam turned fifteen and started a freakish growth spurt that was so rapid Dad had asked Bobby to look into whether or not Sam might have accidentally triggered some sort of curse.

In any case, given Sam's appetite (huge), the cost of groceries in Somerville, Massachusetts (obscene), and Dad's underestimating how long it would take him to solve a case (and what was up with all the hush-hush of late, anyway?), a week's worth of money only covered three days worth of meals.

And yes, they had been eating mostly ramen.

Dean tried supplementing their diet with a little bit of shoplifting, but when he'd almost gotten caught, Sam had freaked. No more stealing, he'd insisted. Dad would kill them if they got caught, and besides, there was no way Dean could shoplift two gallons of milk and a sack of hamburgers for Sam's midnight snack.

So between Sam's nagging and the frighteningly intent way he'd been looking at some of the local squirrels and pigeons, Dean agreed to his stupid scheme.

Buskers were common enough, especially around the T stations. Dean had a dim idea that they were supposed to have some sort of license, but it wasn't like he'd ever seen anyone checking.

Sam had a harmonica, and Dean? Well, he could sing well enough. Sort of. Mostly Springsteen, and some Stones, and Zeppelin (of course), and they all had some good, bluesy numbers that went well with just a harmonica for accompaniment.

Anyhow, they did earn a decent amount of money, especially after Dean tousled his hair a bit and put on one of the tee shirts that had been too small on Sam when Sam was fourteen.

(And fine, he'd also gotten a few 'business' propositions as well, but thank God that had apparently sailed right over Sam's giant head or he'd never have heard the end of it.)

They moved around from station to station, in hopes of not attracting the wrong sort of attention.

They were in Davis Square station when it happened. Dean would always remember it, down to the last detail.

" _I can't get no, oh, no no no._ "

He was really getting into it. It was actually fun, and his eyes were closed as he blissed out into the music. The music and the sweet, sweet sound of change falling into his baseball cap.

" _Hey, hey, hey. That's what I say._ "

In fact, the money seemed to be even louder than Sam's harmonica playing.

" _I can't get no satisfaction. I can't get no girl reaction._ "

Of course, that was probably because Sam wasn't playing the harmonica any more.

" _Cause I try, and I try..._ "

The blissed-outness faded away. Dean opened his eyes.

" _And I try..._ "

He had a nice crowd around him. Lots of people. Commuters. Students. Little old ladies.

Dad.

" _I can't get no--_ "

Dad was in the crowd, just sort of... staring. Sam was nowhere to be seen, but Dean thought he heard some very familiar wheezing laughter from behind the escalator.

A train pulled up. Dean grabbed his baseball cap and ran for it.

He eventually ended up in Quincy.

When he got back to their motel, Sam acted as if nothing was wrong. Dad said nothing, either. So, Dean joined the whole saying nothing party.

No one said anything the next day, either. Or the next.

On the fourth day, they packed up and headed out to Cahokia, Illinois.

This time, before Dad took off for yet another hush-hush job, he handed Dean three different credit cards with three different names.

"For the next time Sam eats through the budget," was all he said.

Sam, of course, lifted one of the cards and went and bought a copy of the Stones' _Forty Licks_ as a present for Dean.

Just because.

* * *

At the next stoplight, Dean made a sound that _could_ have been a sneeze, except for the fact that it so clearly wasn't.

Sam didn't react as expected, so Dean 'sneezed' again.

That got the slow turn, and the gaze filled with slowly smoldering hate. "You did _not_ just whinny at me."

"Ah... _wheehahahahah_."

Sam said something that might have been 'you dick,' but Dean didn't hear him because he had started singing the theme song to "Mr. Ed."

* * *

Sam could barely contain himself. He was going to learn how to ride a horse! Dad had insisted, because in some of the country they had to work, horseback was the only sure way in or out. So, they'd go out to Randall's place, and Randall would teach the boys to ride.

Dean had been more dubious about the idea, but then again, Dean was happier on a bike or behind the wheel of a car, even though he was a few years too young to drive legally. Horses didn't have reliable steering, he said, or brakes.

But that was okay, Sam thought, because a horse could be your friend. At least, that's what the _Black Stallion_ had told him. And the Prydain Chronicles. And Tolkien.

Horseback riding would be the best thing _ever_. He was sure of it.

The first horse Sam ever rode was a chestnut gelding named Arlo. Randall said that Arlo was a good horse for a beginner. Sam offered Arlo a carrot, just like Randall showed him.

Arlo tried to remove his hand.

Okay, so they had gotten off to a rough start. But Arlo was perfectly sweet and let Sam hold his lead rope while Randall saddled him up. Dad swung up into Blackjack's saddle with no trouble, but he already knew how to ride. Dean took a little coaxing, but once he was up on Oliver's back he looked as comfortable as he did behind the wheel of the Impala. Then it was Sam's turn.

"Up you go, son." Randall made a stirrup of his hands and gave a grinning Sam a boost into the saddle.

Arlo took off like he'd been bullwhipped.

Dad raced after him, coming up hard alongside and spooking Arlo even more. But he managed to grab the reins that Sam had dropped, and hauled both horses into a sharp turn that stopped their headlong rush.

When they got back, Dad ripped Randall five kinds of new ones for putting Sam on such a spooky horse when he'd never ridden before. Dean looked gratifyingly horrified at Sam's close call.

Randall protested, saying he didn't know what had gotten into Arlo. Arlo was normally so mellow, you'd think he'd been tranqued. You could even fire a shotgun from his back and he wouldn't flinch. But none of that mattered. The important thing now was for Sam to get right back in the saddle, and not let this beat him.

So, while Dean rode Oliver around and around the field, Randall saddled up Daisy Mae, a laid-back mare with the patience of a saint.

Sam made it twice around the field before Daisy Mae demonstrated the patience of one of the more ill-tempered Irish saints and removed Sam from her back with one emphatic buck.

"Don't know what got into her," Randall said. "Let's try Butterscotch. Butterscotch is as sweet as her name. Honest and for true."

He sounded so confident that Sam believed him.

Besides, Dean had urged Oliver into a canter. He looked like he was having a lot of fun.

Sam was able to get Butterscotch into a canter. It was like riding the best rocking horse ever. At least until she aimed for a low-hanging tree branch.

After the application of some Bactine and an ice-pack, Dad talked (ordered) him back outside to try once more.

"If you're going to hunt, you can't let something small like this stop you. You've got to keep going until you beat whatever it is that's trying to beat you."

Sam nodded, sniffled, then went back out to the stables.

Brownie knocked him over then tried to step on him.

Lady Jane got the back of his shirt between her teeth and she managed to lift him a foot off the ground before his shirt tore.

Willie held his breath while he was saddled up, and let it out while he was trotting around the field. The fall was slow, but inevitable.

By then, Dean had finished riding and was sitting on the fence, watching the show with morbid glee.

Ginger simply walked back into her stall, Sam still on her back, and refused to move.

By the time the sun was kissing the western horizon, they were down to Princess Snowflake, a decrepit, swaybacked pony that had belonged to Randall's sister many, many years ago. She was kind, and patient, and acted as if maybe she _would_ like to be Sam's friend. She couldn't do much more than amble arthritically around the field, but she was happy to amble as long as Sam wanted.

Or until she decided she was tired, and lay down right there on the spot, nearly pinning Sam underneath her.

Randall scratched his head. "Don't know what it is, John, but there's something about that boy that horses just don't cotton to."

Dad thought about that for a moment, then decided that maybe dinner was more important than beating the thing that was trying to beat you.

Sam didn't object. The subject of horses and horseback riding was never raised again.

The very next Christmas should have been a good one. Dad was actually around, and even seemed to be looking forward to the holiday (well, as much as he ever looked forward to anything).

But Christmas morning ended up being maybe not so pleasant for Dad as it could have been when he had to spend part of it holding his younger son in a headlock to keep him from killing the older son, who had just presented him with a My Little Pony.

A pink My Little Pony. In a clown outfit.

* * *

"Up-and-down-and-up-and-down." The words ground out through clenched teeth as Sam made a waggling motion with his hand that was clearly meant to induce motion sickness.

Instead of retaliating with something like 'armadillo' (the equivalent of a tactical nuke in their verbal arsenal), Dean blinked in confusion.

"Kinda not getting what you're trying to say there, Sam."

"You know..." Sam mimed hurling. "The boat."

Dean just looked at him, confused.

Sam was confused right back at him, then his eyebrows went up and his mouth opened as memory settled into the proper place. He settled back in his seat as far as was comfortable in his current condition. "Oh, yeah. Sorry. That was Cas. My bad."

* * *

Every now and then, even after Castiel had been returned to full angelic status, little artifacts of Jimmy would show up whenever Castiel was distracted or frustrated. A fondness for hamburgers. A preference for bourbon over scotch.

Or, as they discovered during a case where they were trying to unhaunt a fishing boat in Georges Bank, a tendency towards sudden and violent seasickness.

Given the fact that Castiel had also recently discovered Jimmy's fondness for Mexican food, the results were spectacular.

* * *

"God, that was hilarious," Dean said wistfully. "Next time he shows up, we so need to buy him a burrito."

Sam nodded. "Absolutely."

They contemplated the scenario peacefully for the next quarter mile.

"Maybe we can also see what happens when we give him some tequila," Dean said. Then his brow furrowed. "Wait. We were fighting. We were fighting about something, weren't we? What the hell were we fighting about again?"

Just like that, Sam's pissiness returned like a bad burrito. "You thinking it's hilarious that I got shot in the ass by a dead guy."

This, of course, got Dean laughing again, this time so hard he could barely breathe.

* * *

Apparently, Mortimer Joseph Hunnicutt (b. 1803, d. 1882) was not just an asshole, he was a paranoid asshole. The first clue was the rocks. The second was the way the coffin had been padlocked shut.

"Okay. What the hell is up with that?" Dean asked. "The guy's family hated him so much they wanted to make sure he stayed put?"

Sam hefted one of the padlocks. After a hundred some-odd years, it was a solid lump of rust.

"Back when they planted our friend Mortimer, there was a pretty decent trade in fresh cadavers."

"Uh, ew? And, uh... why? Or do I not want to know?"

Sam picked up his shovel, poised the edge against the first lock, then drew it back. One good whack should shatter it. "Medical schools. Dissection was illegal in most states, but it was the best way to learn. Some schools paid a lot. When I was looking into old Morty's past, I found out he was very much afraid of the 'resurrection men.' Go figure."

The first lock fell apart. Then the second.

"So he locked himself in his coffin rather than make a contribution to science. Nice. At least it kept his body here so we can torch it."

Sam gave the third and last lock another whack. This one wasn't as rusted through as the others, and it held on tight.

Or maybe Mortimer Joseph Hunnicutt (b. 1803, d. 1882) had some idea of what they were up to and was putting up one last bout of resistance to the desecration of his corpse.

"I'll be glad when this one's over." Sam flexed his hands before hefting the shovel for one last assault. The town would be glad, too. It was fond of its reputation of 'most haunted town in Illinois,' but mysterious and broken-hearted girls flitting prettily about in white nighties were better for the tourist trade than the ghost of a crotchety old bachelor with a penchant for exposing himself to tour groups.

The lock broke. Sam took the shovel and wedged it under the lid of the coffin. Dean stood at the ready, matches in one hand, lighter fluid in the other. Sometimes, Sam thought he was starting to enjoy the 'burn' part of 'salt and burn' a little too much for comfort. He'd been downright vicious with those azaleas.

"One, two... three!"

The coffin lid stuck for a moment, then gave way.

_Click._

"Dean! Hit the ground!"

_KaBOOM._

* * *

"Not. Funny."

Dean would have disagreed, but he was too busy hyperventilating.

_Click... KaBOOM_ was a very, very nice addition to his arsenal. Sam would have a hard time topping that one.

"Well," Sam said, in full Prissy Princess mode, "at least I'm not the only one who's had an exhumation go bad on him."

Dean stopped laughing.

"Remember, Dean?"

He did. Sam wouldn't go _there_ , would he?

"How you lied to Dad about the Countryside Montessori case?"

He would. Damn him.

"You bastard," Dean whispered.

He remembered it. He remembered it _all_. The frightened children. The desperate parents. The sense of misery and seething hatred that permeated one corner of the classroom.

That little cardboard coffin.

* * *

He and Sam had been working cases by themselves for a little less than a year when Dad called them about a haunting at a kindergarten in a posh suburb outside of Denver. Dad was up in Maine chasing down a god-knew-what, and the two of them had just finished up a case in Nebraska, so they could get there faster.

"Sounds like a poltergeist," Dad told them. "Find what's causing it, and stop it. There's kids getting hurt."

Then he hung up with no more instruction than that.

It was an ugly, ugly case, and if it weren't for the fact that Dad had helped the local chief of police with a nasty haunting ten years back, it probably would have ended up headlining on CNN.

Children at Countryside Montessori were scared to go to school. Something was biting them, they said. It hated them. It wanted to hurt them. Dean had posed as a CPS social worker and had seen some of the wounds.

They sure as hell weren't bug bites. They were small but deep puncture wounds, as if something had been stabbing at the kids with a tiny chisel.

Even more worrying, some of the kids had started complaining about tightness around their chests that made it hard to breathe. When their parents changed their clothes, the bruises around their rib cages were impossible to miss.

An X-ray showed that one little girl even had cracked ribs.

"What the hell kind of ghost would target kindergarteners?" Sam asked. It was a stupid question, but Dean knew better than to retort with a joke.

"One we're gonna stop," he said.

If only it were that simple. The attacks had started suddenly, and no amount of research had turned up any deaths right beforehand that might have resulted that kind of haunting. No one with any connection to the school, any of the families, any unsavory history with kids, nothing. There weren't any triggering events they could find, either--no one going into or out of prison, no recent demolition or construction.

Lead after lead turned up a dead end. It was only a chance comment by the teacher when Sam went back to see if she remembered anything else that led to a breakthrough in the case.

It turned out there _was_ a recent death, one that would give cause for one hell of a grudge.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me!" Dean said when Sam called him to explain. He was in the school basement looking for anything that might be a hidden grave.

"'Fraid not," Sam said. From the sound of things on the other end of the line, Sam was in a diner or coffee shop, or at least somewhere indoors and warm and not stanky like the basement. "Check under the big pine tree behind the school."

"Fine, fine..." Dean went outside into the damp and the chill. He got the salt-n-burn kit out of the Impala's trunk and headed downhill towards the big pine tree. The sun was setting and it was getting colder by the minute. "Pine tree, check. Now what?"

Sam told him. Dean asked him to repeat it.

Sam repeated it, but it didn't change anything.

"Okay. I found it."

Just where Sam said they would be, two popsicle sticks had been glued together to form a lopsided cross.

On the crosspiece, someone had written MR. NIBSY in Sharpie.

Dean heard a voice in the background, explaining something to Sam.

"Marisa says--"

"Marisa? I'm freezing my butt off out here, and you're talking to hot-for-teacher Marisa?"

There was a put-upon sigh on the other end of the line. "Marisa says that the kids loved that hamster to death. Literally."

Great. Love him and squeeze him and pet him and call him George, only to have him come back from the grave and try to return the favor.

"You're telling me that the kids are being terrorized by the ghost of a dead _hamster_?"

"Apparently, it was a very angry hamster."

Dean rubbed at his temples, but he'd need a few shots of Jack to get rid of this particular headache. "So now what?"

"What do you normally do when you find the corpse of a vengeful ghost, Dean?"

Dean snapped his phone shut so viciously it almost broke in half.

It took him less than a minute to dig up the remains of the late Mr. Nibsy. The shoebox coffin had not been in the ground long enough to decompose. He could still see where the kids in Marisa's class had decorated it with crayoned pictures of suns and rainbows and what he suspected was meant to be Optimus Prime.

Usually, there was something very satisfying about torching a ghost's bones, but Dean didn't know quite what to think as he poured lighter fluid over the Stride Rite shoebox.

Then, instead of setting the entire book of matches ablaze with a bad-ass flourish, he looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching before striking a solitary match.

The shoebox burst into flame and was consumed in an instant. One last enraged, spectral squeak marked the end of Mr. Nibsy's reign of terror.

Later that night, after a few beers, Sam and Dean agreed that no other hunters must ever know the truth of what had happened in Denver. Dean told Dad that they'd found and torched the remains of a nineteenth century serial killer who had a thing for kids. That was the end of the matter, or at least it should have been.

That Christmas, Sam gave him a Hamtaro tee shirt. Just because.

* * *

"Swan. Fucking. Lake."

"My third grade science project!"

"Hayride!" Dean shot back.

Sam spluttered and stammered until he finally came up with "Eastlake Victorian!"

Oh, it was getting ugly now.

"Queso fresco!" That should put college-boy in his place.

"United States Park Service!"

Dean flinched. "That's below the belt, Sam. _Way_ below the belt."

"Really? You're saying that after _you_ were the one to bring up the Cat Fanciers of America?" He shook his head. "I just don't get you sometimes, Dean."

"Well, fine. Be that way. Bobbin lace!"

They were still yelling when they pulled into the motel parking lot, but Dean still made sure Sam didn't have too much trouble getting out of the car.

* * *

Sam had heard stories about people being so paranoid about grave robbers that they booby-trapped their coffins, but he'd never thought it was real.

If the charges had been fresh, both he and Dean might have been killed. As it was, the explosion was feeble enough that Dean was shielded by the coffin lid. As for Sam, it had merely peppered his backside with buckshot as he tried to vault out of the grave.

Once he had reassured himself that Sam was not seriously hurt, Dean started laughing and would not stop.

In a way, that was fine because he was laughing too hard to do anything with the salt and the matches, and Sam was more than happy to incinerate the bones of Mortimer Joseph Hunnicutt (b. 1803, d. 1882) himself.

Then he nearly incinerated Dean with a single look when Dean did a passable imitation of the coffin-torpedo's triggering _click_.

* * *

Eventually, the argument petered out. Sam had the last word with 'chess tournament,' and Dean seemed willing to let him have it, since they were back in their motel room and it was time to work on Sam's injuries.

After a miserable hour, they were done, and Sam lay on his stomach on one of the beds. He was reasonably comfortable now, with two shots of whiskey in his belly and a bag of frozen peas on his butt. Dean sat on the other bed, relaxing by cleaning and oiling their guns.

"You really going to torment Cas with burritos next time he shows up?" Sam said. He was half asleep, but enjoying the post-argument peace too much to let himself go all the way just yet.

"Of course," Dean said simply. He wiped another speck of lint off the barrel of his favorite pistol.

Sam grunted in agreement. Of course it was 'of course.' Cas was pretty much family by now, or close enough to it. The angel just needed to be reminded of the fact from time to time.

Before he fell asleep, Sam thought he heard a whispered _click... kaBOOM_.

Sam didn't retort. Why should he? It was just Dean's way of letting him know he cared.  



End file.
